


The Girl in The Woods

by gracediamondsfear



Category: Lawless (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-05 19:09:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracediamondsfear/pseuds/gracediamondsfear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While out for a walk, Forrest finds a mysterious injured woman in the woods.  She speaks little English, but needs his help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Evening Walk

The Bondurant Boys had a dog for a while, a big lumbering bloodhound with one bad eye that was of no use to any hunters and couldn’t guard an outhouse much less watch the stills, so he was abandoned on the roadside by his previous owners. Forrest and Jack found him while out on a run, sitting on the side of the road licking a nasty cut on his front paw.  With a short whistle the dog jumped on the back of the truck and became something of a mascot at Blackwater Station, sleeping beneath the feet of the men at the bar, curling up in front of the stove in the winter and out on the porch in the summer. Every so often he’d pad up the stairs at night following Forrest into his sparsely decorated bedroom and flop over onto his side on the floor beside his master’s mattress. Forrest was glad for the company. He would rub one of the dog’s ears between his fingers as they both fell asleep.

Forrest was younger then, a few years over twenty and at the point when a lot of men start to wonder if the life they have is the one they’ll always have or just a stopping point on the way to something greater. Thing was, Forrest couldn’t imagine what else he might want. He was a man of simple pleasures – good cigars, good whiskey, a warm fire and plentiful fishing were about all he needed. He saw the men in town talking about how they had to get up at the crack of dawn to milk the cows or drive to the feed store or settle up at the bank. These men were taking years off their lives, working themselves to the bone to get more money and for what? Maybe it took having your family wiped out by disease to give you a perspective on what’s really important – though he wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Forrest figured if you had your health, a roof over your head, a good pair of shoes and a view of the mountains, you were a rich man. The only thing those men in town had that he didn’t was something more affectionate than a dog to share their bed.

Auggie was the dog’s name. After dinner on the clearer nights Forrest would get his cigar, cluck his tongue at the dog and they’d go for a walk through the woods, down the hill to the pond behind the house. He liked looking back at the Station, the yellow glow from one or two of the windows where the lights were still on, the smell of burning hickory in the stove. Sure, it got lonely at times, but it was more than a lot of people had these days.

As Auggie sniffed around at the water’s edge and Forrest watched the crescent moon rising over the mountains, he heard a snap in the trees behind him. The deer were always out foraging when it was warm enough, not to mention the odd black bear. He didn’t think much of it until the usually bored Auggie perked up and looked beyond Forrest’s shoulder. A few more twigs snapped and Forrest pulled the gun from the waistband of his pants and spun around to take down whatever was stalking up behind him.

In the blue moonlight she looked like a ghost in her white nightgown and blonde hair and when she exhaled her breath surrounded her face in a halo of fog. At the sight of Forrest and Forrest’s gun, not to mention the dog that started howling for the whole county to hear, she froze, her milky pale fingers clinging to the thick tree trunk beside her, eyes wide with fear. Her gown was muddy at the bottom and frayed, as if she’d been wearing it for a while, been outside for a while. She was barefoot and her hair was wild and matted, sticks and leaves tangled into the strands. Across her cheek was a healing wound, like the slice of a knife, scabbed over, running from her cheekbone to beneath her bottom lip.

“Almost got yourself shot,” he said, still holding his cigar firmly between his teeth. It was his way of apologizing. He tucked the gun back into his waistband and snapped his fingers at Auggie to quiet him. “He won’t hurt you, just makes a lotta noise.”

The girl said nothing but did let go of the tree, stepping backwards a bit deeper into the brush growing just off the trail.

“You ok, miss? You look…a little…well…” he nodded at her, waving his hand up and down as if his point was made. The way she was standing distracted him. She’d found a shaft of moonlight and he could see her dark nipples beneath the gauzy fabric, the outline of her narrow hips. If he looked long enough he could see what she'd look like with no clothes on at all. He cleared his throat once as if she could hear his thoughts.

“Where’d you come from anyway?” He asked, taking a step forward, close enough to see the dark circles around her eyes, the bruises on her arms. The fabric of her gown hung loose from her collarbones. She was just a whisper of a girl. “Now don’t be scared, I’m just askin’ a question.”

The girl stepped away from him and stumbled over a fallen log. He rushed forward and helped her up, his hand encircling her arm completely. She felt like she was made of twigs, as if another fall would shatter her to bits. When he noticed her shivering, he took off his sweater and put it around her shoulders.

“That’s better,” he said, offering a tiny smile, the only kind he was capable of. Her eyes were silvery in the dark and the lids fluttered before she wavered on her feet, falling forward into his chest. Her breath was hot through the flannel of his shirt and his scalp prickled at the feeling. He tossed his cigar into the pond to lift the girl to her feet. “C’mon now. Stand up.”

She made an effort but soon stumbled again, her eyes rolling back as she fell to her knees. Forrest looked down at the girl, her gown puddled around her as she searched his face for sympathy, understanding. Taking a chance, she opened her mouth and spoke.

“Bitte. Bitte, helft mir.”

He sighed and picked her up, signaling to the dog to run ahead. She buried her face in the warmth of his shirt and clung to his neck, tears of exhaustion and gratitude stinging her eyes as they made their way to Blackwater Station. Forrest said nothing by way of reassurance, as he wasn’t even sure what he could do for her. While he climbed the hill he could feel her bones moving beneath her skin, the fingers on his right hand nestled between the grooves of her ribs. She was mumbling something under her breath for a few minutes, but by the time they got to the house and Forrest kicked open the back door, the girl in his arms was fast asleep.

 

*       *       *       *       *

 

For the first time in days Greta woke up warm. But she knew she wasn’t home because she could feel sun on her face before she even opened her eyes. Male voices, three or four, all deep and rumbling, seeped up through the floor beneath her. She was in a bed, or on a mattress at least, covered in thick wool blankets. The window was dusty and had no curtains, the walls covered in torn and yellowing newspapers.

Sitting up made her stomach cramp and lurch up into her throat. She was dizzy with hunger, aching with thirst so she had no choice but to get up. The floor was cold on her bare feet and her arms rippled with goosebumps. An old cherry wood dresser stood next to door with a cracked and clouded mirror on the wall above it. The sight of her own face nearly brought her to tears. Her hair, her pride and joy that she spent hours coiling into braids and buns, brushing until the strands lay flat and smooth like satin ribbon was now a tangle of straw, dirty and matted. The usual blush in her cheeks was replaced by a gray pallor, dark circles around her now dull gray eyes. The scar on her cheek was puffy, tender to the touch and pink, in need of cleaning. When she attempted a smile her dry lips cracked, a bright jewel of blood appearing where the skin split open. Before the man who saved her sent her on her way again she’d have to find a way to get a bath.

Looking away from her reflection, Greta ran her fingers over the dark bristled shaving brush, straight razor and shiny black comb all set in a straight line. Beside them there was a wooden box with brass hinges holding a dozen or more cigars. She sniffed one and smiled. It reminded her of home – her real home.

The top drawer held socks, underwear, handkerchiefs, and a photograph of a family in a black cardboard frame – three boys, a mother and a father, all very proud, their faces stern but confident. Beneath all the clothes was a thick roll of money, more than she’d ever seen in her life. And although she wasn’t familiar with American money or what it was worth, she was sure that this two inch thick bundle of bills could take care of her for a long time. Someone downstairs laughed and it startled her. She dropped the money and slammed the drawer shut. The second drawer down had what she was looking for. Pulling out a moss colored cardigan that hung almost to her knees and could wrap around her body twice she shut the dresser drawer and left the bedroom to find the source of the voices that woke her.


	2. Awake

She stood at the base of the stairs and watched the front room through the open door. It was a restaurant - a pub, not someone's living room. Bathed in filtered sunlight, two men sat at the bar with steaming cups of coffee and a newspaper while two younger men, closer to her age hunched over a notebook and argued amicably. A stream of static and a hint of music came from a radio on a shelf in the corner and the dog from the previous night lapped up water from a cracked porcelain bowl near the front door. Still she lingered in the background since none of these men were the one who had saved her. That man had been imposing even in silence, with broad shoulders and a strong jaw.  When she rested her cheek against his flannel shirt he smelled like tobacco and cedar wood and the smoke from a fireplace. He'd worn a fedora that kept his eyes in shadow, but she was still sure she'd be able to recognize him, even if just by the sound of his voice.

One of the younger boys looked up from his work and saw her. He smiled and waved her further into the room. Greta pulled the cardigan around herself a bit tighter and walked forward, ashamed of her bare feet and filthy hair.  With a better perspective on the room, the bar, the front porch, the gas pumps outside she grew even more confused as to where she actually was.  There were no women in the building, no sign of them being anywhere close by either.  No flowers in vases, no white lace aprons on hooks or wedding portraits on the walls.    

"Hey Forrest! That girl is awake!" The boy yelled, pulling a chair out for her to sit. He had a limp and although his eyes were sparkling, she could see the sadness behind them. But his smile was infectious and she couldn't help but return it.

"I'm Cricket, this is Jack and over there at the bar that's Howard and Spoons. I'll get ya some coffee. I bet you're hungry. You hungry?"

"She don't speak English," Forrest said, coming out of the office. At the sound of his voice, her scalp prickled and she looked over her shoulder to see him shake out the match that lit his cigar.  He caught Greta's eye and nodded at her before heading to the bar to get himself a coffee and carry hers back to the table.  He looked less frightening in the daylight with his dark hair smoothed down except for a tiny tuft that stuck straight up in the back. He was clean shaven, neatly dressed, a short pencil tucked behind his ear.  But it was the softness around his eyes that she hadn't seen in the night that made him more...approachable, even handsome.  Once he sat down beside her he noticed her cardigan...his cardigan and she felt her cheeks flush. When she started to take it off he held a hand up and pulled it back up over her shoulders without a word.

"How we gonna help her if she can't talk?" Jack said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.  

Forrest looked her in the eye "I'm Forrest. Forrest Bondurant," he said, touching his chest.

"Greta," she said, "and I have some English. Small."

"I bet she's one of them war brides," Howard said, turning from the bar, his mouth full of biscuit that muffled his words. "Guys overseas would find these girls all over, and they wanted to marry soldiers to get to America and they wanted to get a little --" he paused when he saw how Forrest was looking at him, tight lipped, one eyebrow arched.  Even if the girl couldn't understand him he would watch his language around a lady or suffer a slap in the face later. "They wanted to get...married...too."

Forrest picked up the girl's tiny left hand in his and found the skinny gold band on her third finger.  

"Could be right Howard.  Don't let anyone tell you you don't know a thing or two.  We'll have to go into town later, see if anyone's looking for her."

While Forrest spoke he was looking at Howard, but his thumb was rubbing the back of her hand.  It was the softness, the cool pale skin, no callouses, no scars.  It reminded him of his mother's blue velvet gown that he used to rub his cheek on.  His thumb glided over the thin, bird like bones of her hand and fingers, the repetitive motion giving some sort of comfort he didn't know he needed.  After a long moment she drew back, hiding her hands in her lap, unsure of what the men were talking about but knowing that now that they knew she was married, it was over.  They would send her back to him and she couldn't even imagine the sort of punishment she'd receive this time.  Her eyes stung with tears that she wiped away when no one was looking.  When they stopped talking, having come to some sort of conclusion that she was sure involved sending her away, she searched her mind for the words she needed to get out.

"I can not go to him again.  Bitte...please.  I run away from him for his hurting of me."

They were looking at her, listening.  She had their full attention, but still wasn't sure they understood exactly what her situation was so she stood and took off the cardigan, pulling up the sleeves of her nightgown to show the constellation of bruises on her arms where he'd grabbed her, grabbed her and shook her so hard she'd bitten the inside of her cheek and tasted blood running down her tongue.  Her mother had warned her that her strong will wouldn't sit well with an American man, that she'd have to watch her mouth and behave herself or she'd feel the back of his hand more than once.  Greta thought that if she kept quiet around him she'd be safe, but somehow she always disappointed him.  She wasn't quite the trophy he'd made her feel like back in Koblenz. 

"You see I can not go," she said, holding her forearm in front of Forrest's face.  

His eyes, the eyes that had looked so comforting and soft only minutes before, were now darkened, his brow furrowed as he held her arm by the wrist, examining the injuries.  After a moment he grumbled something under his breath and let her go, getting up from the table and disappearing again into the office, slamming the door behind him.

Cricket appeared back at the table with a plate full of biscuits, scrambled eggs and few pieces of bacon, enough for three people.  She nodded in thanks, and although she was starving, the smell of the food and the coffee and the smoke from Jack's cigarette made her stomach twist and rumble.  She took a deep breath, but couldn't stop it.  Her mouth started to water and she pushed back from the table to take another deep breath.

"You ain't gonna eat nothin'?" Cricket asked, his smile wide and innocent.  

She tried to return it, to thank him for the breakfast, but when she opened her mouth the nausea hit with vicious force, the ache at the hinge of her jaw.  She jumped from the chair and bolted out the front door, vomiting over the side of the porch into the dirt.  The morning air was cool on her cheeks and she felt instantly more comfortable.  A hawk screeched in the distance and startled her but she composed herself and sat down on the edge of the porch, her hand on her stomach protectively, resting her head against the wall of Blackwater Station.

She wasn't sure why, but the look on Forrest's face when he saw her bruises let her know that she'd finally found someone who could fix it.


End file.
